Murder in the Marketplace by Lora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

invited me in, offered me a drink, went through the long form with no problem, and even told me that Wanda was divorced with a child, lived in a two-bedroom apartment and drove an ‘86 Honda Civic, which allowed me to fill out basic information on her. Curtis—after about ten minutes he’d asked me to call him that—was semi-retired on disability. He seemed to know all about his neighbors.
    “I’d rather ask you about these people than talk to them—Wanda particularly.” I was only half kidding. If gossip was the only way to move on through the register, I was ready to gossip.
    “I just wish for your sake they were more interesting,” he said, laughing. “Wanda is only amusing when she’s angry, although that’s often. Bill Aronson”—the man with the spatula—"is frightened of me—thinks I’ll make a pass at him, as if he was that attractive.”
    Curtis laughed again. He was middle-aged, medium height, skinny and graceful, punctuating his words with expressive gestures. His conversation had the pent-up air of someone who doesn’t get much opportunity to talk. He told me he’d been at a back rehabilitation class that morning. His apartment was very pale, very spare, with two comfortable chairs in the living room, a wall system of expensive-looking components beside the door, and a series of huge, startling canvases on the neutral walls.
    “So all the apartments are two-bedroom?” I remembered that Jenifer downstairs had said she had two bedrooms.
    Curtis nodded. “All the same—two bedrooms, one bath, impossible kitchen, not enough closets. But the price is right. It’s even better if you have a roommate, like Jenifer. But I can’t live with anyone else.”
    “Is Jenifer’s roommate female?” I caught myself. “Never mind. I’m gong down there after I finish Bill Aronson.”
    “Jenifer’s a cute little thing,” Curtis said fondly. “But so young. Still expects the best of everyone. Her roommate is different—into one of those strange religions, and even less fun than she used to be. I hope she doesn’t really convert Jenifer.” He got up when I stood. “We chat at the mailbox sometimes,” he confided, his loneliness more apparent. “Nice girls, really, both of them. Catch Wanda chitchatting, or even letting her little boy talk. I invited him to play catch one day, and you’d have thought I had ‘Man-Boy Love’ tattooed on my forehead. Honestly!”
    I got away at last, wishing I had met Curtis under other circumstances. He would make a good friend. I went back across the upstairs walkway and knocked on Bill Aronson’s door. There was no answer. I could still smell the onions, but the man with the spatula was lying low. I knocked a third time. A curtain twitched in the living room. Still no answer.
    When I turned away, Curtis was standing in his doorway. “What did I tell you,” he crowed. “He’s holed up in there, but he won’t come out. Well, what do you need to know? I’ll tell you about Bill, and what I don’t know, I’ll make up.” He raised his voice on the last few words. The curtain twitched again.
    “Thank you, Mr. Hall.” I raised my voice a little, too. “We are supposed to ask the neighbors for information if people won’t speak to us.”
    Bill Aronson’s door banged open. “You don’t speak for me, pansy.”
    “Speak for yourself then, Bill.” Curtis winked at me and went into his own apartment, shutting the door.
    “Why are you doing this?” Bill Aronson scowled at me. “I value my privacy. I don’t want the government poking its nose into my personal business.”
    I had been trained to answer this with exquisite courtesy and a whole page full of statistics, boring the listener into acquiescence. Tactful courtesy is not my strong suit.
    “If you think the government doesn’t already know a lot about you, Mr. Aronson, you’ve got another think coming.” I waved my register at him. “Your name and address are here already. The IRS knows how much